CarrollBlog 3.28
The Pakistani stone dealer opens his large white sample boxes on the picnic table. Inside in separate sections are pieces of smoky quartz, tourmaline, mica, many others. Taking them out one by one, he tells me what part of Pakistan they come from and how they were found. Some are very beautiful, most just look like smudgy rocks. I know nothing about precious stones, jewelry, nothing. The only time I was ever taught anything about geology was a required course in university where we used to smoke dope before each class because the instructor was so boring. Today we are sitting in the park across the street from my apartment, surrounded by mothers and their children, punks shouting at each other and their dogs, police in pairs strolling by watching the punks, Turkish men playing cards at the next table. The dealer hands me a large stone that looks like it has been crudely painted green. "That is my best emerald. When it is cut by a jeweler, it will be worth many thousands of euros." The Emerald City. The Emerald Isle. Emeralds mean nothing to me, except in association with other things-- like The Wizard of Oz. The stone in my hand is rough and heavy. The dealer is smiling and nodding eagerly, encouraging me to love it as much as he does.
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nR2ygFn-yR8